


scoundrel in the city streets

by haechansheaven



Category: NCT (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Celebrity, Hook-Up, M/M, Mark Lee (NCT)-centric, Non-Idol AU, Partying, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-02
Updated: 2020-09-02
Packaged: 2021-03-06 21:13:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,023
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26245468
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/haechansheaven/pseuds/haechansheaven
Summary: Mark thinks that he can be a villain in his own story if that’s what the world wants from him.Three steps come to him in a moment of clarity. This is Mark’s game and only Mark’s now. It’s always been Mark’s, anyways, to begin with.
Relationships: Mark Lee/Nakamoto Yuta/Suh Youngho | Johnny
Comments: 6
Kudos: 63





	scoundrel in the city streets

**Author's Note:**

  * For [johnnyumark (skippinginclouds)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/skippinginclouds/gifts), [namjoonieftw](https://archiveofourown.org/users/namjoonieftw/gifts).



> WOW this took a hellish amount of time, mostly because i restarted it about fifteen times. even now i look it over and think, “ah, i could have done this instead.” i hope that it is to your liking, and that you both enjoy :D also, this ended up becoming more of a character study than a pwp like i originally intended, so i do apologize for that.
> 
> **Expanded/additional tags** : Hook-Up (often and without considerations), Partying (alcohol mention), Celebrity AU (mark is an actor), Non-Idol AU, Sexual Content (nothing descriptive; implied cuckolding)

Mark Lee, 24, curls his fingers around thighs and hearts, opening them, just to leave before he can become a permanent fixture. This is his prerogative and has been for as long as he’s had control of his own life. It’s easier for him to meet their expectations head on rather than fight their opinions and live quietly. If the world wants to give him hell, he’ll give it right back tenfold.

People avert their eyes and bow their heads while Mark raises his gaze and smiles at the devil.

* * *

**Donghyuck [10:43 AM]** : We need to talk

**Mark [12:13 PM]** : Ooooh no emojis. Serious

**Donghyuck [12:14 PM]** : Don’t fucking test me

* * *

Fingers curl in Mark’s hair, nails gently scraping against his scalp, before they tug, hard, bringing him face to face with Donghyuck, who looks ready to kick his ass so hard he wakes up in the year 2120. Part of Mark recognizes that this is a warranted response to every single time he’s ever fucked up, and part of Mark fucking hates this. The loss of power is grating against his pride that’s already been reduced to shreds.

This is just the proverbial icing on the cake.

“You know,” Donghyuck punctuates each word with a tug on Mark’s scalp, “I’m usually on your side, Mark. We know too much about each other. It’d be a fucking mistake to let you run away, and I _know_ it’s the same for you. But fucking and dumping my _best friend_?”

Arms flailing, Mark races to catch himself before his face meets the edge of their coffee table when Donghyuck finally lets go. It’s all in vain, though, just as every single decision in his life has been so far. His face meets the table with a thud that resounds through the silent apartment; an accented beat in the furious melody of Donghyuck’s breathing. It would be funny if Mark didn’t fear for his life in this moment.

“There’s no way he didn’t know my reputation, Hyuck.” Looking up at Donghyuck from the couch is embarrassing at best, infuriating at worst. Simply put, Mark feels _lesser_. And Mark Lee is _not_ lesser than _anyone_. “It’s not like I chased after him.”

“No.” His hand runs down his face, smears of leftover glitter following it. “No, of _course_ it isn’t your fucking fault, Mark. When has it _ever_ been your _fucking fault_ , hm? When have _you_ ever coaxed someone into your bed on _purpose_?”

Mark doesn’t like _this_ , the sensation of feeling powerless in the face of danger. Because that’s what Donghyuck _is_. He’s a ticking time bomb, constantly on the verge of unleashing his fury on the world because it’s what it deserves. It’s what _Mark_ deserves for crossing a threshold he never should have crossed for the very last time.

None of this means he has to take this shit sitting down.

“Fuck _you_ , Hyuck.”

“You already have!” Donghyuck says around a hysterical laugh. “You’ve fucked me, my best friend, and any other person with two legs who happens to catch your fucking eye. You’re insatiable, Mark, and I’ve had enough with you running rampant and fucking with people who _don’t deserve it_.”

Those are Donghyuck’s last words, and Mark hates how he wasn’t able to say anything in return. It’s not like Mark was running around trying to be a hero, after all.

One day, Mark overhears a mother tell her son that people who ride the star called fame will only break his heart. He’s twenty-three and he scoffs because it’s not like it’s on purpose. A drive to take what can be taken before everything breaks is born from being wronged. Two wrongs don’t make a right, but they do take a diving slide into the infield to catch a pop fly.

The famous don’t _specialize_ in breaking hearts. If they must shatter a dream or two for self-preservation, Mark doesn’t think much of it.

Donghyuck leaves, just like everyone else does, and Mark finds himself with one less roommate and even more rent to pay.

* * *

At another party, Mark reminds the people he surrounds himself with that this is who he is—who he’s _become_ —and there’s no going backwards from a route that’s flooded behind him. Just one step back and he’s in over his head, the current so strong it threatens to pull him somewhere he can never return from. So, step by step, Mark thinks that fucking up is better than being pulled away from the surface.

“Ya fucked up.” Ten’s arm finds its home around Mark’s shoulders, warm and familiar in the sort of way that Mark used to crave. Emphasis on the past tense. “What’re you gonna do? Get on your hands and knees? Beg for forgiveness? You’ve already overstepped the boundary you never shoulda crossed. So, what’s the point in holding back? Let _loose_ , Marky. Live the life you wanna live.”

And, well, isn’t that a concept? A life that _Mark_ wants to live. Whatever the fuck that means.

“Yeah. Sure.”

Mark is apathetic. Perhaps it isn’t _apathy_ , but it’s something really fucking close. There are aspects to others’ struggles that he could understand if he really took the effort, but in that sort of way, it’s a bit like tossing his own corpse over a ledge and watching it hit the rocks, only to miss the ocean completely. Is it dramatic? Sure. Does Mark care? Not particularly.

Across the apartment, Yukhei raises his glass, as if in commiseration, and Mark offers him a middle finger, maybe two, in return.

He’s not fucking his life up for praise. Mark’s doing it because, well, what else is there for him to do?

When the entire world watches with bated breath for his body to collide with the earth and disintegrate into dust, who is he to keep them waiting?

When Mark is eleven, he writes lyrics to songs he’ll never get to sing on the back of receipts that his mother takes, crumples up, and throws in the trash before he can give them another thought. They’re trash to her, after all. A fruitless dream that he should leave behind when there’s already one set before him that looks so much prettier, so much more prosperous, so much more—

But it’s what she wants, after all, and Mark has never know anything that _he_ wants for longer than a second, so it makes sense that his words that are manifestations of the dreams he’s always yearned to chase after are forgotten as soon as they are created.

In another life, Mark writes lyrics and the world listens and loves them, and his mother holds him close and tells him how beautiful they are… But this is not that life, this is not that world, and Mark cannot raise his head and speak to a woman who doesn’t see him as her son, but rather as something of a means to an end.

In the future, when people will tell him, “Just live the life that _you_ want,” Mark will laugh and say, “Well, isn’t that a concept,” like he’s never even tried it before.

Receipts burn in a trashcan fire, and the ashes that float into the air are Mark’s sense of self-worth. It dies at age eleven on a sidewalk in a city he’s forced to call home. Like a fucked-up phoenix, he rises from the ashes, born anew, ready for a new life. Next time, the world will burn with him.

* * *

Right, and here is where the story _begins_.

A quick recap for those who are just joining us:

Mark Lee, 24, has fucked Donghyuck Lee’s best friend. This is not the first time, and not the last time, that Mark Lee, 24, has decided to fuck someone and never look back. It’s a reputation that he’s built at this point, and it’s not like he’s tried to do anything to change it.

There’s not much else to the life that Mark Lee, 24, has led, other than a career in acting that falls to the wayside more often than not. It’s not a modest sort of career, like small appearances in commercials; his resumé is kept afloat by large roles in blockbuster films that stun the world with action scenes that put real life to shame.

That’s about it, though, and isn’t that quite the pitiful way to talk about a career built tirelessly?

Isn’t that quite the pitiful way to talk about a career built on tired shoulders?

Mark Lee, 24, suffers at the hands of reality, and has found his escape.

If they call him a villain, then so be it. He’ll take the title and perch it on his head like an abandoned crown, broken gems and all.

* * *

“Well.”

Yukhei stares at Mark like he’s some animal that’s about to bite, prodding him with his shoe and letting out a long laugh. This is amusement at its finest, and Mark is fine. This is fine. Everything is fucking _fine_.

“Don’t fucking touch me with your dirty sneaker,” mutters Mark, shoving it away from his leg. “I don’t want your pity.”

“You think _this_ is pity?” There’s something animalistic about Yukhei’s smile as he leans down to make eye-contact. It’s on the verge of breaking free from _something_ , and the idea of becoming the target of a beast is unsettling to Mark, who stares up into its mouth from the floor. “All of us are fucked up, Mark. You’re not special. So why don’t you stay for a while? Have some fun.”

And there’s a truth to it that Mark has always been hesitant to pull away from the lies that have been built around him. They’re snug and a second skin at this point, blood beading at the seams that others are so desperate to pull apart. It’s not something that they’ll understand, after all.

_We know him_ , the people whisper.

_We know you_.

_Right_ , Mark wants to say. _Right, well, if you know me so well, then why don’t you just tell me what the fuck I’m supposed to do?_

But that’s the truth of the matter: The world watches Mark through whatever shade of glass they want, form their own opinions, and refuse to cater to the truth. In life, there’s an initiative to live ones life truthfully, and there’s a smaller part of us that, in some capacity, is content to simply collapse into the arms of the lies that others speak and exist in the periphery.

Mark was twelve the first time someone looked at him and called him a liar, and Mark was twelve the first someone looked at him and Mark thought, _Sure, let me live up to your expectations_. For his entire life, he had been led around by a hand clenching his throat, fingers clasped firmly, pausing his pulse when it felt appropriate.

The world loves to watch people crash and burn from the farthest reaches of space onto the surface of planets that only look like Earth. The similarities end the closer you are to the surface; there are blues and there are greens and browns, but none of those mean the same things that they mean on Earth. None of that matters when they don’t _know_.

Mark has found his home on one of those planets after a particularly brutal crash landing, and they wait, with bated breath, until he loses his mind.

“Yeah, you’re right.” He holds out a hand that Yukhei takes like it’s second nature and allows his body to be pulled up from the ground, weightless. “I might as well.”

Twenty-one and restless, Mark leaves the apartment of a co-star whose body had felt so warm wrapped around his. This morning is a routine. Another face, another body, another night, another front-page photo on a tabloid that doesn’t care about how sharp its words really are. He’ll send an apology email in the afternoon through his manager, full of false niceties that everyone will see through but accept because he’s _Mark_ fucking _Lee_.

He’s a walking hazard; the fine print on a contract about the potential pitfalls of participating that they started adding when he turned nineteen and the world took a good look at him and decided that he’s no good. He’s the disclaimer at the end of a commercial that he wrote himself when he turned nineteen and told the world that if _that_ is what they wanted, then he would fucking give it to them for nothing in return.

On his phone is a message, or two, or ten. None of it matters. Mark calls his manager and asks for him to begin drafting an email, maybe even call a florist to send a bouquet.

* * *

From the doorway, Mark realizes that he has two decisions: 1) He can walk into the room; or, 2) He can turn around and leave now as if nothing ever happened. Something about the second option sounds promising. Something about the first option sounds _thrilling_. Mark’s choice isn’t hard to make. The faces in the room are familiar—is there ever a time that they aren’t, he wonders—and stare up at him expectantly. Will they bear witness to another infamous fuck up, or will they leave the room disappointed in a future they foresaw but never came true?

A glass bottle sits innocently in the center of a circle— _so retro_ —and Mark thinks that _this_ is his last opportunity to make an escape.

He never does.

Because, you see, everyone is hesitant to introduce Mark to new faces, and he’s the first to understand why. He watches the hesitation pass through the crowd, meets two excited pairs of eyes, and smiles to himself because, well, won’t this be fucking fun?

Don’t forget, now, that Mark is the villain of this story and everyone else is simply collateral to his scheme.

Their names are John—“Please, call me Johnny!”—Seo and Yuta Nakamoto. They’re fresh faces in a sea of distrusting eyes, looking at Mark like he’s a fucking _god_ and, well, isn’t this a fucking shitshow in the best sort of way.

“So, what’re we up to tonight?” asks Mark, all bravado that rests in piles on his shoulders. The bottle in the middle of the circle is something of a cue that Mark purposefully ignores in favor of planting the seeds of discomfort and watching, with a twisted sort of satisfaction, as it blooms. “Are we living out those middle school dreams we never got to have? Whose idea was this?”

Humans are inherently flawed, and they learn best through mistakes. It’s why Mark is here, in an apartment party at the age of twenty-four and watching a Coke bottle spin in circles on its side.

Mark doesn’t blink as the mouth of the bottle points towards him and Renjun crawls over laps to hold Mark’s face in his hands and slot their lips together. Tenderness is the last word that could be used to describe the moment, and Mark relishes in the fact that this, in a way, is just another stepping stone in his legacy, coaxing moans from lips that he won’t remember the next day.

They’re separated by a groan, and Mark sits back, because this is nothing. This never will _be_ anything.

Across the circle he meets Johnny’s gaze first, and then Yuta’s; watches the way that they suck in deep breaths that Mark pretends he can hear over the pop music playing in the background. When Mark _really_ thinks, he can’t even remember whose apartment this is.

It’s not long before the game loses their attention, bottle kicked to the side as the bodies disperse.

And, well, that’s that.

For now.

* * *

**Jaehyun [7:37 PM]** : Mark pull through

**Mark [8:43 PM]** : Address?

* * *

There’s barely any room to open the fridge and stick his face in, eyes scanning over the variety that consists of craft beers whose names he doesn’t recognize, or the cheapest thing on the market. In the end, Mark grabs whatever is available, sighing at the cooling sensation on his palm and waiting until he’s still and forced onto a couch before he cracks it open. Almost as if a call, Jaehyun is immediately leaning over his shoulder, pulling the can from his fingers and stealing the first sip.

“Thanks,” Jaehyun purrs, gently prodding a body off the couch before taking the seat beside Mark. “You’re always thinkin’ of me, huh?”

“I don’t really have a choice when you’re always, you know, where I am,” grumbles Mark. He knows his words are lost under the music, though Jaehyun gazes at him, pretending to listen, regardless. “What the fuck do you want?”

“Well, _first_ off, I called you here and you came, so it’s not like I _forced_ you to come. And second, you’ve got some new admirers, Marky.” An arm is wrapped around his shoulders, allowing Jaehyun’s lips better access to his neck. He presses a teasing kiss, laughing when Mark pushes him away. “Not that anyone’s really surprised.”

Mark just about manages a scoff, can brought to his lips. It’s like a hand-off, Jaehyun taking a sip right after him. “And who might you be speaking about?”

Jaehyun’s gaze travels past Mark, and it’s not for a second. It’s a pointed, held gaze, before he finally gives Mark his undivided attention again. “Now where’s the fun in telling you something you already know, hm?” Detaching himself from Mark’s side, Jaehyun ruffles his head. “They’re good fucks, by the way. Both of ‘em.”

Like a hurricane, Jaehyun is there and gone. In the same sort of sense, though, Mark knows this is simply the eye of a storm that’s born on this night. On this couch, beer in hand and mind full of songs Mark wish he wrote, he allows himself to enjoy the calm. There’s never any reason to rush things that are bound to happen.

New phone, new phone number.

New phone, new phone number.

It’s an endless cycle that’s lost him thousands of contacts throughout the years, though it’s so easy to be caught in the currents of life and tossed, lifeless, into the estuary, that those lost contacts don’t matter. A message without a name is something he’s learned not to blink at.

This one, however, catches his eye.

* * *

**RANDO?? Who the fuck gave my number out again [11:45 PM]** : Is this Mark Lee?

**Mark [1:09 AM]** : Fuck off

**RANDO?? Who the fuck gave my number out again [1:45 AM]** : And here I was thinking you’d be up for a good fuck

**RANDO?? Who the fuck gave my number out again [1:45 AM]** : My name’s Yuta

* * *

Okay. Time to review everything we have learned up to this point.

Stick around because there are some things worth noting.

First.

Mark Lee, 24, exhibits self-destructive behavior because it’s the only way he can grab control of his life and feel _alive_. Though, perhaps that’s something of an exaggeration, because the world watches his every move, and all Mark Lee, 24, is doing, is living up to their expectations. Society calls him a heart breaker and, well, it’s his job to break as many hearts as humanly possible. At this point, it’s less self-destruction and more of a way of life. Mark Lee, 24, knows nothing else other than _this_.

Second.

There are new faces in town that look at Mark Lee, 24, like he’s some sort of untouchable god. Their gazes are not new to him, and he likes smiling coyly for those who have yet to realize that they’ve met their match.

Third.

Ideas are always under development and Mark Lee, 24, has come up with yet another.

This is how he executes it.

* * *

Mark, despite all the narratives that paint his actions as reckless, is careful. It’s why he decides to take _small steps_ to reach his current goal. Because, you see, Mark is always looking for his next good fuck, his next good headline, his next good _I’m sorry_ email.

These small steps towards a bigger goal proceed like this:

Step one: Seeing Yuta at a party, placing his hand on his shoulder, and coaxing him into the kitchen where no one else is around to watch Mark corner Yuta and ask why he’s hesitating. A warm grip on a hip, a kiss against the neck, and a whispered, “Oh, and, don’t worry. I saved your number. Why don’t you send me your _friend’s_ , too?”

Step two: Running into Johnny at a coffeeshop and ordering an overpriced, shitty coffee just for his number and a little of his time. It’s not as easy as pulling Yuta to the side and planting the seed of sin into his mind. Johnny is looking at him with bright eyes and a smile with an edge, and it takes some time for Mark to coax him far enough into comfort that he can get what he finally came for.

Step three: Half-assed attempts at repairing burnt bridges to hear more about them. His first message from Donghyuck in _months_ is a, _Stay the fuck away from them_ , though it’s not the only message with such sentiments. All they do is make Mark laugh. Who are they to stop him?

There are _more_ steps that happen in between, but Mark doesn’t think that they make much of a difference in his relentless pursuit of a goal that the world frowns upon.

Word of mouth is how Mark learns this has turned into a _competition_ between men. As much as this is a _hunt_ for Mark, it’s a game for them as well, and in that sense, everything seems _new_. Mark’s mind churns a thousand kilometers a minute as he realizes the _possibilities_. If there’s nothing serious for both sides, what is there for him to lose?

_Everything_ , the world whispers, _is yours to lose, even when you’ve got nothing left_.

* * *

“You’re plotting something.”

“He’s _definitely_ plotting something.”

It’s true. Mark Lee is plotting something. Mark Lee has _been_ plotting something for months now; staying off the radar, laughing at rumors, and biding his time. There’s a goal in the not-so-distant future, and Mark can feel the warmth that it promises him. He can’t help the smile that wraps around his face like a mask as he sits in an armchair and thinks of the future.

“He’s in the middle of a _game_ ,” whispers Ten. His lips part from Jaehyun’s neck only to speak, before returning home. Mark, in return gags.

“Fuck off, fucker.” Yukhei adds a finger or two to his statement, and Mark responds in kind. “Good, glad to see you’re still with us.”

Jaehyun’s glance up from his phone is apathetic at best, and confused at worst, and, well, it’s not like Mark expected anything else from any of his friends, if he can even call them that. They’re not all exactly _friends_ with one another. It’s more like they’re people who happened to become tied together through history and antics that the public has yet to forgive them for and has yet to forget about.

Tilting his head, Jaehyun blinks a few times before the words he’s looking for finally find him. “I thought you dropped your Switch and broke it?”

“Not that kind of game,” Mark mutters, rolling his head towards them. “You know my favorite kinds of games.”

“I think they’re pretty nice, though.” Fingers pinch Mark’s cheek in a half-hearted form of retribution. _Don’t be mean_ , it says. He returns Ten’s stare with amusement.

“You’re barkin’ up the wrong tree.”

Yukhei is right. Heartbreak is never the intention, but always the result.

They all meet accidentally on purpose. The communion between individuals who have all decided to toss their freedom to the wayside is inevitable, like an asteroid meeting its demise. The earth is their meeting place and destruction was the only plausible outcome. Everyone watches them with bated breath and thinks to themselves that, well, isn’t this the worst possible fucking thing that could ever happen to all of us?

Because people are melodramatic, and they’re the main characters of their own lives, and isn’t _anything_ that threatens them something to be eradicated?

Mark decides, in that moment, to keep them around, because what use are people who can’t stand on the same level as him?

* * *

**Ten [11:37 PM]** : Where the fuck are you?

**Mark [11:38 PM]** : Good question

**Mark [11:41 PM]** : Where the fuck am i?

* * *

There’s a club ten miles from Mark’s apartment that takes a good thirty minutes to get to on a good night. Ten drums his fingers against his thigh in impatience as Jaehyun sings along to another song on the radio, and Mark wonders what the fuck he’s here for. If he tries hard enough, he can list a million and one things he’d rather be doing, even if they aren’t things he’d actually ever get around to.

“Stop frowning out the window, asshole.” Yukhei’s elbow connects with Mark’s ribs, and he receives a narrowly dodged chop to the neck in return. “The fuck?”

“You act like I’m doing this on purpose.”

“Being a pain in my ass? Yeah, for sure. Isn’t that why you exist, or whatever?”

Mark laughs and laughs and laughs, because, sure, at this point, isn’t it? Doesn’t he trample hearts under the soles of his Chelsea boots and laugh when they ask him what they did wrong? Isn’t it Mark’s _thing_ to curl his fingers around the throat of society to make a name for himself and ruin his own reputation before anyone else can say a word? At this point, his only goal in life is to sink his teeth into his reputation and burn its house down with his own matches.

From the passenger seat, Jaehyun watches in silence because he isn’t someone to say anything. None of them are. Life has taught them the invaluable lesson of the power of silence. It’s impossible not to feel worry for Mark, a man who has fallen so far from the path set up for him just to prove others _right_ , though. Not that it’s anyone’s job to care of him.

Ten miles from Mark’s apartment is a club that takes thirty minutes to get to on a good night. This isn’t a part of his plan, but it turns out to fold itself up nicely and fit itself in, anyways, Johnny and Yuta peering over unfamiliar faces to watch Mark flow his way through the crowd that whisper and whisper and whisper because, well, they _know_ Mark, don’t they?

Worries and concerns don’t matter when Mark’s hands are already firmly wrapped around their arms and their bodies are already welded together on the dance floor as the people around them watch and wait with bated breath as a story they don’t even belong to accelerates steps away from the climax. They send messages to friends, take photos, and Mark hasn’t cared about shit like that since he was nineteen and caught sneaking out of Jungwoo Kim’s apartment building at five in the morning.

Johnny and Yuta are new faces, fresh faces, and if they want to play their game with him, Mark doesn’t care as long as he can play his own.

Plus, Mark thinks, it’s funny to watch them stare at his face, and then at one another; to feel their erections through their jeans and watch the way their hands fight between reaching for Mark and reaching for the other. The game, every day, every moment, evolves in the sort of way that Mark never expected, yet finds joy in.

He can fuck one, he can fuck both, but it’s such a nice thought to think that he could fuck them at the _same time_.

* * *

**Mark [4:15 AM]** : Fuck its been a while since i played such a fun game

**Ten [4:21 AM]** : What the fuck go the fuck to sleep you fucking ass

**Yukhei [4:27 AM]** : Just don’t send pics I don’t wanna be implicated

**Jaehyun [4:31 AM]** : I’ll take pics ;)

* * *

It is another week, another party, and another opportunity for Mark to present his face and watch those around him recoil in fear. Who’s his target? Why is he here? The world wants answers, and yet fear the truth. Mark parades around with a proverbial head on a stick, a war-stricken path left in his wake.

He searches for two faces in a crowd of familiar bodies; watches them round a corner and disappear down a hallway that Mark is absolutely sure he’s walked down before. These places are a second home to him, even if the owners watch his arrival with thinly veiled disdain and a tabloid on speed-dial. Doors are familiar and Mark lists off the names of people he’s fucked in bedrooms that don’t belong to him; thinks of all the places that he is no longer welcome.

Mark does not find Yuta or Johnny in any of the bedrooms.

He is a man with a plan. He always has been, really, even when he walks into the bathroom of a party and sees Yuta on his knees, Johnny’s cock down his throat. These moments happen more often than not, and Mark muses the consequences of his own game taking a turn he doesn’t particularly like; curls his fingers around his cup and wonders what exactly he can do with this situation—how he can force the world back into his hand.

Three steps come to him in a moment of clarity. This is Mark’s game and _only_ Mark’s now. It’s always been Mark’s, anyways, to begin with.

Yuta looks up at him from his knees, eyes blown wide and spit running down his chin while Johnny sports a look that looks _unnatural_. It’s triumphant and cocky and ignorant, and Mark decides that one of the few wishes he’ll ever make is to see something different. He wishes for it to be _Johnny_ walking into a room next time, watching Mark get his fill.

Mark strives to watch the world with his own eyes and to burn anything that stands in his way. Johnny will be conquered with patience and a plan. He’s nothing but a pawn in Mark’s game.

The bathroom door closes with finality and, despite the improbability, it sounds louder than the music that shakes Mark’s heart. Yukhei’s body leans against the wall, arms crossed, smile dangerous, presence swallowing Mark’s meager pride whole. Chewed to pieces, it’s spat onto the ground at his feet. Picking it up is a personal battle that Mark gives thought to. His pride is something disposable when there's nothing left for him to lose. Yukhei watches, eyes alight, as Mark digs its remnants into the ground with the heel of his boot.

There’s a game for Mark to complete. There’s a game for Mark to _win_. He’s spent enough time being a spectator to a match he never approved.

* * *

It is surprisingly easy to coax Yuta into bed, and surprisingly difficult to coax Johnny, a hitch in his plan, though not an unwelcome one. Mark is a villain, though, and a brilliant one at that, placing his foot in the open door that Yuta isn’t even trying to close and welcoming himself in; curling himself around Yuta’s body and staking his claim, waiting and watching.

A message is sent, a reply is received, and Mark unlocks the door for good measure. He lets the thrill of the chase, the eagerness to consume his prey, overwhelm him. It’s step one, after all, to open Yuta up with his fingers and no courtesy on the kitchen table. Mark is fucking Yuta, balls deep, when Johnny walks in the front door and, well, isn’t that just an invitation in itself?

(It is, and Johnny joins like it’s the most natural thing in the entire fucking world, even if it wasn’t.)

This is a moment that Mark will probably relish—the arch of Yuta’s back; the way he clenches around Mark’s dick while choking on Johnny’s—and, sure, it’s somewhat cruel, but when has Mark ever played fair? The warmth of a body beside his, close to his, wrapped around his, has never been something that Mark sought for want of companionship. Whatever others seek will _never_ be what Mark will give them in return.

And, if in the morning, Mark wipes his hands off on a kitchen towel and leaves, just like that, then who is anyone to stop him? This is Mark’s story, and he’s content with being the villain in other people’s eyes if that’s all there is to it.

In a coffee shop, miles from his latest mistake, Mark turns a cup of coffee he doesn’t even want between his hands and thinks that it’s another job well done. Sort of.

“Still breaking hearts?” Donghyuck asks, chair leaning precariously on two legs.

“It’s not like I do it on purpose, you know.” Mark spins his phone between two fingers, a small noise of surprise slipping between his lips as it careens towards the ground. When he picks it up, the screen is cracked from edge to edge, and, yeah, this is definitely a metaphor for his life. “Fuck.”

They laugh, for a moment, before it goes quiet again and, well, the cycle is set to begin all over again because Mark is set to be the villain in his own story and there’s no point in anyone stopping him now.

This is Mark’s story, a never-ending cycle of scandals that the nation loves to hate. In some sort of fucked up way, Mark doesn’t mind the way that the world watches him and waits for his next big fuck up. He’ll be sure to meet their expectations. And then some.

* * *

Mark Lee, 24, is the villain of his own story, only because he’s never been able to figure out what he’s wanted to do on his own. This is his downfall, an abandoned chance at fixing everything he’s broken with his own hands, and failure at its best. Somewhere, far down the road, everything will blend together, and Mark will be free of whatever hell these actions have brought him.

For now, he collects broken hearts between his fingers and crushes them into a fine dust that the wind carries far, far away.

**Yuta [12:45 PM]** : …

**Yuta [12:45 PM]** : Round two next weekend?

**Yuta [12:45 PM]** : Johnny’s down

Yuta Nakamoto, 28, is wide eyes and big smiles, and a view of the world that has yet to be hurled into the fiery pits of hell that are collectively known as _reality_. He digs his fingers into opportunities, keeps his head low, and lets the world burn around him after he takes a step, and another, and another, all forward. The world declares that his innocence must be protected, even as Yuta plucks the petals off flowers and aims for the top without courtesy for those around him.

It’s only fair, after all, to use the people around him just like they’ve been using him.

**Johnny [12:48 PM]** : Yeah

**Johnny [12:48 PM]** : I’m down

Johnny Seo, 28, watches the world with a honey coated smile that conceals teeth as sharp as knives. He’s been in this world before, and he already knows the way they stare like they _know_. Johnny digs his heels into the ground and begs a higher power for forgiveness as he forges a path that he wasn’t allowed to walk the first time he was allowed a look into this society. A part of him will always be fascinated with the things that try to hurt him. Another part will always look for opportunities to strike first.

He’s been here, he’s seen things, and it’s only fair for Johnny to stake his claim this time around.

In a ring, they wrap their fingers around the others’ throats and drag one another into hell. This is the path they have chosen and there’s no going back. No point in going back, really.

**Author's Note:**

> my intentions for the story were for the reader to lack a full understanding of mark. he isn’t meant to be an inherently likeable character, though i didn’t intend for him to be an absolutely terrible character, either. i just wanted him to seem flawed and human. i hope i was able to capture that, and i hope you enjoyed.  
> thank you for giving this a shot and reading it, if you have. :]


End file.
